There’s no such place as far away


photo by Lalo via Unsplash

Through choppy seas and misty winds
Take flight despite the drag on your wings
For the song of life is yours to sing

Though the path be dark
If you fail you face the shark
Yet of the skies you are the king

Defy the gail to paint the sky
The tides may change yet fly on high
Let the angels sing to the beat of your zing


In response to Sonya’s Three Line Tales: Week 148 challenge.

Title credit goes to Richard Bach. The picture reminded me of his book by the same name.

Amazing Grace

It’s the first church that I see in this damn wilderness. I don’t know the denomination, but one tends to overlook such things when one’s feet threaten to get blisters.

Pushing open the door I find myself in a the most beautiful garden. Flowers, of every conceivable colour, of no particular kind, wild, fragrant, joyous.
I wander around like Alice in Wonderland.

Finally, someone. He’s watering the iris.

Excuse me, where is the church?

Here.

I mean, where is the actual church?

All around you.

Is there a priest around here? I figure there is no point in asking him.

I am the gardener.

My feet are really killing me. Look Sir, I am searching for the church.

Why can this not be it?

No alter! No congregation! No choir! Duh!

God’s earth. Flowers bearing testimony to his grace. Hymns sung by rustling leaves.

I sink down to my knees amidst the lilies and petunias. Soft grass comfort my feet, as a gentle breeze caresses my hair. I close my eyes in prayer completely embraced by His love.


In response to the Sunday Photo Fiction challenge of August 26, 2018, based on a photo by John Brand

Search

Climb the rocks, Swim the tides, Reach for the elusive beacon light;

Searching for something you may find, something you may never find;

At the bottom of your mind, in the depths of the sea, truth or a figment of memory;
Keep searching.


In response to Sonya’s The Three Line Tales, Week 134 challenge, based on the provided photo prompt.

The Leaking Ink

I’m sick, down with a terrible flu. All that I feel like doing, is to stay curled up in bed and rise only for that intermittent cup of steaming hot coffee. I guess, I’m one of those people who, if faced with the predicament of choosing their last meal, would go with a cup of aromatic South Indian coffee.

But when one writes a blog titled ‘Leaking Ink’, then it seems almost blasphemous to not respond to the Stream of Consciousness Saturday prompt of ‘Ink’.

I was never a writer.
Let me rephrase. I was a dreamer who never put down her dreams. In school I was often reprimanded for having too vivid an imagination. [As if there can ever be such a thing!] Tone it down my English teacher would comment. Stick to the often trodden path. Do not speak to yourself. It gives the impression that you are cheating.
Suffice to say that slowly but surely the education system nipped the nascent writer in the bud.

But not the dreamer.
On no Sir, I didn’t really care that people on the streets thought me crazy for talking to myself. When you have an entire soap opera playing out in your head, you need voices and gestures. [If only I had grown up in the bluetooth era, I could have easily passed off as someone having an animated conversation on the phone.]

Life played out as life does.
My collection of stories grew. Some I lived, some I witnessed, some I created as an alternate reality to escape to. With time the stories became darker. The happily ever after morphed into So what now and If only. When life threw me lemons, I made exotic mocktails.
All the while I kept my stories safely ensconced in my own head. Drop by drop the reservoir filled up. Critical mass was reached. I tried to build the walls higher. I tried to keep it all in. I really tried.
Until one fine day, my cup runneth over.

And here you have it. The Leaking Ink blog…

image

That Hour

That hour
when excitement vies with trepidation
when fatigue is overshadowed by hopes
when aspirations are realised
and the world as we know it changes
space time takes on a new dimension
That hour
that makes new relationships
alters old ones
from whence springs hope
from whence dreams take wings
and a new life takes being

Presenting The Man of The Hour…
IMG_1100

In response to the 77th Tuesday Photo Challenge – Hour

Art Attack

“Enter.”

In her 23 years teaching art, Matilda doubted she had ever faced such an intimidating group. Principal Bee, the State Superintendent of Public Instruction and the District Counsellor, looked ready to announce a death sentence.

Pushing her shoulders back, she walked in and tabled the strange old painting.

“What’s this,” the councilman sniggered.

“It’s proof that art matters. It’s why you should not cut the school’s art budget.”

“This masterpiece is supposed to convince us?”

“No,” came the gentle but firm voice of Police Chief Brandon from the doorway.
“I am. Me, the artist who painted that. Anger therapy was what Miss Matilda used to call it. That is the reason why I uphold the law instead of breaking it.”

In response to Bikurgurl’s 100 Word Wednesday: Week 37 challenge.

To catch a falling star

They said it was wise to catch a falling star and keep it in my pocket for a rainy day,
in case I ever need its brightness to guide me on some dark dreary way.

But she sparkled so brilliant, beautiful and hot, that I could not bear to put her away.

Today I laugh with mirt and joy, and revel in life’s fragrant bouquet,
knowing that if that dark day were to come, today’s memories would disperse the grey.


In response to Sonya’s Three Line Tales, Week 85 challenge based on a photo by Matt Palmer via Unsplash

Tales from the great wild garden

In the great wild garden lived a frog named Tad.

He was a tiny little frog, so tiny that he was still called the ‘Tad’pole.
None of the other young frogs wanted to play with him, and poor Tad spent many a days all alone.

One day Tad decided to go out exploring.
Hippety-hop hippety-hop, off he went, jumping on his tiny legs…

Until suddenly he stumbled upon a grasshopper.

Now Tad knew that frogs ate grasshoppers, so in his most fearsome voice he croaked, “Who are you? Why have you come near the frog colony? Don’t you know that I can gobble you with a flick of my tongue.”

“I’m Rusty,” replied the terrified grasshopper. “I have no friends and my family is ashamed of me because I’m a dull brown and not a leafy green. Even if you eat me, no one will care.”

No friends! Tad knew that terrible feeling.

“I’m not going to eat you,” he replied, and from that day on, Tad the frog and Rusty the grasshopper became the best of friends.

“You shouldn’t be friends with a grasshopper. They are just meat. You should eat him,” admonished the other frogs.
But Tad would not listen.

***

One day Rusty was awakened by the clamouring of many wings. “Fly away, fly away, the great wild garden is on fire.”
Off Rusty catapulted – towards the frog colony. He was going to save his friend.
Despite the mayhem, Tad soon found Rusty. “Quick, hop on my back,” he instructed. With another big catapult, Rusty flew them to safety.

The fire raged on until all the grass was burnt. Most of the frogs died.
“I wouldn’t be alive if it were not for you,” exclaimed Tad.
“I wouldn’t be alive if it were not for you,” exclaimed Rusty.
“Hooray for friendship,” cheered everyone else.


Written in response to Michelle’s Photo-Fiction #101 challenge

New beginnings

You can’t just yank away the routine from a creature of routine and expect his world not to shift on its axis.

For 40 years life had run like clockwork. Until one day they throw him a party, gift him a shiny new watch, pat him on his back, and tell him that he’s free to take the vacation that he never had. For days he had lain in bed trying to find a reason to get up. Then today his wife had literally dragged him up and pushed him out of the house. “Go somewhere. Do something.”

What?

So here he was, on a cable car, like a damn tourist.

God had the city changed! The people looked different, the places looked different, and the Warf had turned into a carnival. His city had evolved and he hadn’t even realised!

Opening the map he charted a new routine.


In response to Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers, 117th challenge, based on photo prompt by Yinglan.